


Stress Relief

by AmISam



Series: Dankest Shorts [1]
Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, cause that's not how I roll, its smut time friends, just not of the meaningful or sexy kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 03:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12645138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmISam/pseuds/AmISam
Summary: Dungeon crawling was by no means an easy job, so it made sense that some in the Hamlet would seek out ways to relieve their stress, occasionally with each other. It wasn't as though the Heir had an issue with that, it's just that they really would rather not have to see any of it.An unfortunate incident at the brothel, however, leads to them getting a front row seat to some of this stress relief, courtesy of Reynauld and Dismas.





	Stress Relief

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to the Dankest Dugout. And, since I can't write seriously, this is a hot mess of weirdness and I can't say I feel any guilt about that. Recommended listening while reading this is pretty much anything by Barry White, since he was all I listened to when writing this (and yet this is somehow about as romantic as my geology textbook?). 
> 
> Also, this is dedicated to @hotmilky over on tumblr.
> 
> Also also, if I have to single-handedly fill the Heir/Leper tag, I will. You'll have to pull that pairing from my cold, dead clutches.

The storm had snuck up on them. One minute they were in the Abbey having tea with the Abbot while discussing potential renovations to the crumbling church, the next they were trying to get back to the manor in torrential rain. And, since the weather had been so fair earlier, the Heir hadn't bothered to bring their heavy cloak with them. They were regretting not accepting the Abbot’s offer to wait the storm out in the Abbey.

It was just their luck that a storm had hit on the one day they went without their cloak - must be the Hamlet’s way of reminding them not to get too comfortable.

“I get the idea.” They grumbled sourly, ducking under a nearby awning to briefly escape the downpour. The distant manor was intermittently illuminated by flashes of lightening, its silhouette warped and distorted by the rain. Already soaked to the bone and shivering, the Heir knew trying to make it all the way back was an unwise idea. They needed to find somewhere to wait the storm out.

Problem was, most places were closed this time of evening - where would they go?

The Heir ran a hand through their soaking hair, pushing it back off their face, and chewed at their lip. While the dark and rain greatly limited their vision, the Heir supposed they were near the town’s center. Which meant the tavern would be nearby, and while they imagined the weather was too foul for many to visit the place, they had also never known it to shut.

But then they remembered that they weren't exactly too welcome in the tavern anymore after their last visit, which had ended with them and that damned jester getting into a passionate fight over what genre of music was best. The Heir winced just thinking of it. 

They tried to think of somewhere else they could go, somewhere nearby, and the only thing that came to mind was a place they also didn’t wish to visit. But that seemed to be their only option, so the Heir begrudgingly took off, reluctantly leaving the safety of the awning and heading down the street.

Situated behind the tavern was a plain, two story building. There were no signs on it, but everyone in the Hamlet knew what this place was. Light shined from it’s windows, meaning it was open, and the Heir could only pray it wasn’t crowded.

They pushed the front door open and went inside. This was the only part of this place that the Heir had seen previously, and the small receiving room look more or less the same. Red wallpaper, plain floors, stairs leading up in the back, and a couple plush chairs in the corner with a large-breasted woman lounging on them.

At the sound of the door opening, the Mistress of the brothel looked up from what looked like a cross point project. There was a look of surprise on her features, presumably at finding the Heir at her doorway.

“Hello there, Madame.” They said as the closed the door behind them. “I apologize for the intrusion, but I don’t think I have it in me to get back to my quarters in this weather. Do you mind if I stayed here for a bit?”

“Oh, of course my Liege!” The Mistress rose and quickly hurried over to them. She looked over their soaked form, a motherly worry in her eyes. “You must be freezing - come, let me show you to a room so you can rest.”

“I don’t wish to impose-”

“Nonsense. We’re only expecting a couple of people tonight, there’s plenty room for you, don’t you worry.”   

The Mistress gestured for them to follow her upstairs and the Heir followed without further complaint, glad to just be out of the rain.

“I’ll go grab some spare clothes so you can get out of yours.” The Mistress said as she walked. Upstairs, she showed them to a room at the back. "You wait in here and I'll be up as soon as I can with those clothes."  
  
From downstairs came the sound of a door opening. The Mistress glanced at the Heir, then to the staircase. “You go get comfortable, I’m just going to go see who that it.”  
  
"Thank you, Mistress." The Heir said, watching as the woman headed back downstairs. When she was out of sight, the Heir stepped into the room, taking in the dim candle-lit space. Big, cushion-covered bed in the center, armchair in the corner by a small dresser, and a closet along the back wall. Nothing too exciting to look at, but who knew what sort of activities took place on those unassuming sheets. The Heir instinctually shivered, trying not the think of what they’d heard.  
  
Running a hand through their dripping hair, they strode into the room, closing the door after them.  
  
“Get comfy, eh?” They said to themselves with a chuckle. “Not exactly a place I ever expected to be relaxing.”  
  
Since sitting on the bed was out of the question (Light knows when the last time they washed those things was), the Heir went and sat on the armchair.  
  
As they were reaching to unlace their boots, a male voice was heard from just beyond the room.  
  
"Which room did she say again?"  
  
They froze, listening as footsteps approached the door and a different male voice responded. "Left one at the back."  
  
"I could have sworn it was right."  
  
"No, it was left."  
  
"You sure that helmet ain't messing with your hearing? It was the right one."  
  
"My hearing is just fine, you ass, and it was the left room."  
  
"If you say so."  
  
A look of horror and worry dawned across their face as the Heir realized they were in the back room on the left. The Heir glanced around the room, looking for a place to hide, lest they be seen in a place like this. With how bare the room was, they only really had one choice.  
  
They scrambled off the bed and towards the closet in the rear of the room, all discomfort and cold forgotten in the rush. The door swung open on rusting hinges, revealing an empty, if very dusty interior. The Heir climbed in, pulling the door closed after them. It was a snug fit, not leaving much wiggle room, but hopefully it would suffice as a hiding place. Only a tiny sliver of light filtered in from the gap in the door, and it did very little to illuminate the tight space.  
  
Not a minute after the closet door had clicked shut, the door to the room opened and footsteps entered the space. The Heir held their breath and willed their teeth to stop chattering, praying the two men decided to take their business elsewhere.  
  
“If we get kicked outta here ‘cause we went in the wrong room, I’m blaming you.” The first voice said.  
  
“This is the right room, stop fussing.” Came the second voice.  
  
It was then that the Heir realized just who was talking. However much they denied it, it was common news around the Hamlet that Dismas and Reynauld were doing each other. While it had caused a few minor problems in the past, most notably the incident in the church, the Heir had no real issue with the two being together. But that had never included the Heir having to listen in, as this situation was looking to become.  
  
_I know I don’t pray as often as I should…_ They thought, trying to will the words heavenward, _But if anyone can hear me, please don’t put me through this. I’ll go to the Abbey more, I’ll stop drink- wait, actually not that one -  I’ll stop hitting on Baldwin, whatever you want! Just make them go away!_  
  
But apparently the heavens either hadn’t been listening or were too busy laughing at them to do anything, because the Highwayman and Crusader were there to stay.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let’s just get going. I have a card game with the gang in an hour.” Dismas went on to say, the words accompanied by the sounds of what seemed to be clothes hitting the floor.  
  
“You have a what?” Reynauld asked him, and based on the unmuffled quality of his voice, the man had actually taken off his helm. If the Heir hadn’t been trying not to have a breakdown, they might have been astonished.  
  
“A card game. You know, a game where you play with cards and win money.”  
  
“I know what a card game is, jackass. Why did you schedule it so close to...this?”  
  
“Reynauld, we’re both men, it takes us, like, ten minutes and we’re done. Now c’mon, get that damn chainmail off. And before you ask, no - you ain’t leaving it on. The damn stuff got caught in my hair and I’m not going through that again.”  
  
There was a defeated sigh from the Crusader, followed by the sound of metallic clinking. “Sometimes I wonder why we do this.”  
  
Dismas laughed the hoarse laugh he was so well known for. “You know why. I don’t got many other options. Damian scares the shit outta me, Audrey has that witch doctor, and I’m not sure Tardif actually has anything under all those layers. Besides, none of them are big, sexy crusaders, are they?”  
  
The Heir found themselves fighting the urge to vomit.  
  
“I suppose…”  
  
“Ach, quit your moping and get naked already. I’m getting cold over here.”  
  
There were a few long moments of quiet, filled only by what the Heir presumed was the sound of Reynauld’s clothing hitting the floor.  
  
“So, who’s topping tonight?” Reynauld then went on to ask.  
  
“Flip a coin?”  
  
“Sure. I call heads.”  
  
Another bit of quiet, followed by the soft sound of a coin hitting a table.  
  
“Heads.” Dismas reported, sounding a little disappointed. “This is the third time in a row you’ve topped. Let me have a go next time, alright?”  
  
“Maybe.” Was all Reynauld said, the smug tone of his voice hinting he had no intention of honoring that maybe.  
  
“Whatever. You bring the lotion?”  
  
A second ticked by.  
  
“I thought you were bringing it.”  
  
Dismas groaned. “Fucking seriously? I brought it last time, it was your turn this time.”  
  
“Well...what do we do then?”  
  
“Your dick ain’t going in my ass without lotion.” The Heir nearly choked on their own breath. “We made that mistake once before and I was sore for a week. You ever try fighting a fucking necromancer with a sore ass? Sucks.”

The image of said fight came into the Heir’s mind - they’d wondered why Dismas had seemed so uncomfortable during that whole ordeal, even when uninjured. This wasn’t the explanation they’d expected.  
  
“Maybe they have some in the drawers there.”  
  
“Lemme check.”  
  
There was the sound of wood sliding against wood.  
  
“It’s your lucky day, babe.” Dismas said, having presumably found whatever lotion he’d been looking for. “Let’s just hope this stuff is still good.”  
  
“I’m sure in a place like this, it is.”  
  
“Well, it ain’t going in your ass so you don’t have much to worry about.”  
  
Reynauld laughed. “Must you always be so snarky?”  
  
“That’s ninety percent of my personality, honey. That and my devilishly handsome good looks are all I’ve got going for me.”  
  
“Well, why don’t you get over here and put that smart mouth of yours to good use?”  
  
The Heir was certain a part of them had just died.  
  
Dismas chuckled lowly, and all words died away into a mess of groans and other sounds that the Heir didn’t want to try to identify.  
  
“Ah, fuck, Dismas...how did you get so good at this?”  
  
“Can’t say, it's a trade secret.”  
  
“Cheeky bastard.”  
  
“And you love me for it.”  
  
“Damn right I do. C’mere, let me return the favor.”  
  
From then on, there was very little talking, save a bit of banter when the two were preparing for what Dismas jokingly called the “main attraction.” Then, it was just grunts and moans and the sound of the mattress squeaking.  
  
The minutes went by agonizingly slow, and with each passing second, the Heir’s desire to die grew, until things seemed to (quite literally) come to a climax. The grunts increased in volume while the squeaking increased in tempo, before suddenly it all ended with two high moans from both men.  
  
“Damn.” Reynauld panted when it was all over.  
  
“Can I make a joke about how that was record time?”  
  
“No. You’re ruining the moment.”  
  
“Hey, means I might even have time to get some pre-drinking in before the game starts. You want to join?”  
  
“You know I don’t, but thanks anyway for the offer.”  
  
“You’re always welcome at my table, love.”  
  
Reynauld laughed quietly. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I think Junia would kill me if she caught me playing cards with you.”  
  
“Have you seen how much time that woman spends here at the brothel? She has no right to give you shit.”  
  
“A fair point, but I don’t think that would stop her.”

“What’s she doing here anyway? This place ain’t exactly the definition of ‘holy’ she’s used to.”

“Wasn’t it the Heir’s idea? There was something about her not wanting to go to the Abbey.”

“The hell kinda priestess doesn’t want to visit a damn church?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve noticed Baldwin doing the same as well, curiously enough.”

“Well, he’s been spending all his time with you-know-who, so that part doesn’t surprise me. “ A pause. “What do you think they get up to? How do they even-”

“Dismas, I love you, but the last thing I want to imagine right now is how the Heir and Leper are intimate.”

The Heir felt their face flush red hot. Is _that_ what people thought they did? Sure, the Heir couldn’t deny some impure thoughts, but they and Baldwin had only ever spent their time together sitting in front of the fireplace in the Heir’s study chatting. Fully clothed and several feet apart, they might add. Unlike some of the other inhabitants of the Hamlet, they weren't degenerates whose only thoughts were on going at it like a couple of beasts in heat.

“See, but now you got me thinking ‘bout it."

“For the love of- what kind of pillow talk is this?”

“I’m curious!”

A groan from Reynauld, followed by a sarcastic quip, “If you’re so curious, then why don’t you go ask if you can watch next time?”

The irony was not lost on the Heir.

“Do ya think they’re really freaky like Audrey and Para?"

“Dismas!”

The Highwayman was chuckling to himself. “Yeah, you’re right, stupid question. They’re probably super vanilla and cheesy. Bet Baldwin reads ‘em dirty poetry and shit to get in the mood, though.”

The Heir wasn’t sure if the wetness on their cheeks was from their still-dripping hair or tears of mortification.

“Dismas, I swear, if you keep this up I’m leaving you.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop.”

After a comfortable silence (for everyone but the Heir, who was pretty certain they’d never be comfortable again), Dismas spoke up.  
  
“I ought to get going.”  
  
“Me too. This was good.”  
  
“Damn right it was.”  
  
The Heir, sensing the end was nearing, listened with bated breath as the men seemed to dress.  
  
“Same time next week?” Reynauld asked after.  
  
“Of course. I eagerly await it.”  
  
“As do I, love.”  
  
At the sound of the door opening, the Heir nearly wept with relief. Footsteps echoed out of the room, and during the silence that followed the Heir closely listened just to make sure they were really gone. When they were certain, the Heir pushed open the closet door and stepped out, limbs stiff from being so cramped.

The room looked more or less the same, but it didn’t feel the same. It was tainted in a way that could never be reversed.  
  
“I knew there was a reason I didn’t come here.” They grumbled.  
  
Storm or no storm, there was no way in hell they were sticking around. The Heir moved towards the door, only to have it swing open just as they were reaching for the handle. On the other side stood the Mistress, a concerned look on her features. In her arms she held a bundle of clothes, and a cloak was thrown over her shoulder.  
“I thought I just saw-” She began, before the Heir cut her off.  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it. Ever.” Was all they ever planned on saying about it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to be going.”  
  
“But the storm-”  
  
“I don’t care if there’s a bloody hurricane out there. Thank you for the hospitality, Madame, but I really can’t stay.”

“Well, at least take this with you.” The Mistress passed them the cloak.

With a nod of their head in thanks, the Heir strode past her and down the stairs, pulling the cloak over their form as they went. Throwing open the front door and being met with a faceful of angry wind and rain, the Heir braced themselves and took off running. The rain stung their cheeks, but the cloak kept them from getting any wetter.  
  
It was going to be nearly impossible to look at Dismas or Reynauld ever again without thinking of this, much less take them on any expeditions, but that would be an issue for another day. Right now, the Heir’s thoughts were focused on getting back to their study and, more importantly, their liquor cart so they could drown this night in spirits and then cry themselves to sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this disaster! Have any other couples you want to see scar the Heir for life? Let me know!


End file.
